wrinkledpebble

[wrinkledpebble]

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[wrinkledpebble]

Weaver dota 2 fanfic chapter 2

Hehehe I write-a da chapter 2

[wrinkledpebble]

I have an Ao3 now.

[wrinkledpebble]

Chapter 2

Skitskurr found himself in a hallway. The smooth walls were lacking in detail not because of the damage but by design. He walked down the hall, looking at his work. It was simple, unimpressive some might say, but it had to be. He turned his attention towards a seam in the floor and wall. Weavers can't frown so Skitskurr settled for a disappointed click.

His eyes had fallen on a tear. Space, as it were, had been ripped apart there. This was the first concrete sign of damage he had come across. It could've been worse though. For this specific case he had lost much. Where it had been before was just a hole. This was noticeable, but practically speaking an irrelevant change. It gave him a mixed feeling. Should he be thankful that this was all that remained? That those holes just happened to line up? Or should he lament the fact that all he had left of this weave was a single dream?

This weave was one from his days as an observer. He refrained from interacting with it allowing for unrestricted growth. The threads fell where they fell and he didn't guide them. He had no influence on the creation of this world. So it caught him very off guard when one of the residents noticed him.

One of the boy's dreams manifested him- or rather, a copy of him. Not another Weaver, but Skitskurr himself.

This was that dream. All that remained of the boy. Skitskurr continued down the halls of the UFO and there he was.

The dream was nothing if not humorous. The boy dreamt himself as a custodian. He moseyed on around vaguely cleaning. He worked his way down the hall. The progress was slow but eventually he walked up to a group of three who carefully backed away. As they backed closer to Skitskurr he could begin to make out their fangs. The place was dimly lit and their black clothes helped the blend with the shadows somewhat, but he could now make them out as vampires. 

They back away from the boy like one might from a bear. Their fear is almost palpable. The boy dreamt that he had power. Perhaps his mind was filling in the cracks for how a normal person might come to be employed upon a vampire UFO. 

The vampires hurried past him, paying him no mind. It took another few moments before the boy noticed him. Before he could come over, Skitskurr made his way into a nearby room and got into a bed. They would follow the script, strange as it was. It was nostalgic to say the least. The boy would keep cleaning until later.

Skitskurr took this time to wander around the ship assessing the rest of the dream. Much of the damage here was superficial. The real damage was the absolute devastation that destroyed the rest of the boy and his world. This really was it.

Skitskurr watched as the boy talked with some nervous vampires, failing to strike up a casual conversation. The night progressed and eventually a huge party started. Mortals other than the boy appeared, though Skitskurr couldn’t make out any faces. Some of the vampires warped as the danced into more demonic forms. The boy mingled here and there, wishing some girl a happy birthday. Apparently he was done being a custodian for now. He traversed the party in an odd circle though. This was of course because he was looking for Skitskurr. Finally his que came and he settled into his spot in the party. He finally gets spotted by the boy but before he can make his way over another interruption presents itself. The ship is rattled by some unseen force. It enters Skitskurr’s mind that the force comes from some holy power, either angels or aliens. The ship begins to fall and the structure collapses in on itself. It’s rendering reminds Skitskurr of how the fate of his weavings. The humans are teleported off the ship, to safety presumably. And amongst the crowd giving each other their farewells, the boy finally finds him.

He professes his love to Skitskurr who responds in turn. Both begin to cry. One last obstruction for the boy, some sort of hovering hologram menu like that from a video game appears between them. The boy selects an option to “Not get teleported off the ship.”

The two set off together, Skitskurr promptly ruins the moment by commenting that the boy’s penis looks like “An upside down angel,” whatever that means. And then...

It ends.

The dream is done. Skitskurr played his very strange part exactly as the boy’s mind had written it.

The boy was gone, this last shred of him all he had left.

Even the boy that existed in this dream was a pale simulacrum of the whole that once was. A self-caricaturization conjured from his own mind. This was not the boy. 

He was gone.

As the dream ended and Weaver began to ascend from this thread, he felt himself weighed down. The tiniest sliver of soul was clinging to him. 

It was not the boy.

This dream version clung to him instead. It defied reason. How could he grab hold of him? The dream was supposed to follow the script. And yet, here they were. The end had been delayed and his departure along with it.

“Boy,” Skitskurr spoke to the phantom. He looked up. His form washing away as the dream collapsed despite his efforts.

“We-ave-r...” The boy choked out.

Skitskurr made his choice, he pulled the dream boy out of the dream, cutting the threads around it. The dream fell apart. Unusable bits of thread fell to the ground around him, catching some current and drifting off into the vast nothingness that surrounded him. He looked to his claw and to the hand of the boy that rested in it.

“Thank you.”

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Chapter 1

"Fah! Good riddance!" Skitskurr cursed their names as he drifted, his weave sectioned off. He had finally been set adrift by the other Weavers. Tired of him! Always getting in his way! They would never be satisfied.

First they tell him to stop his weaving. Didn't like his style! His machinations too creative for them! Despite the offense Skitrskur obliged; he would cease.

So he did. He watched his weave unfold naturally. He found joy in the unbridled growth, being left alone was a nice bonus. Of course, that didn't last long. Soon the others berated him for neglect! 

"Messy!" "Out of control!" 

Damned if he does something damned if he doesn't! To Hell with them! They decided he was more trouble than he was worth and cut him eight out of the Loom.

If exile meant he didn't have to deal with any of them again he would welcome it with open arms.

Skitskurr turned to the shreds of his weave. His work....

The other Weavers weren't gentle when they sectioned him off. His weave was torn, tangled, and clumped. He skittered around taking inventory. What could he salvage?

A nearby clump. So many ideas, smashed together; it hardly resembled the originals. He cut it out, gingerly snipping his thread. He held the clump aloft.

Skitskurr couldn't bring himself to destroy it or cast it away! Despite it all this was still his work! He would be better than the other Weavers.

Skitskurr began a new section of his weave, a temporary home for his ruined works. He attached the clump and returned to the rest.

Skitskurr resumed his work with diligence. A careful snip here, a gentle pull there, and when he looked closer he realized it wasn't as bad as he had initially thought!

His work continued feverously. Some of his weave was so destroyed that he couldn't salvage any of it. He paused for a moment of silence before consuming the meager shreds. The least he could do was reuse the materials; that his prior work might live on still, if only in spirit.

Skitskurr worked for some time, but time holds a different meaning for a Weaver. Eons and seconds are almost identical depending on how you look at it.

He glanced back to the void. He could no longer see the Great Loom. He felt a lump in his throat and a tear trickled down his face. He gave silent thanks that he was at least allowed to cry. He figured most bugs wouldn't get that privilege. He made a mental note to include tear ducts in any insectoid beings he created.

The moment of silence stretched, but as many things do, it ended. Skitskurr had work to do. He reached down and selected a vestige of his work. You could barely call this a shred. It had been one of his favorites.

Space swirled and time dilated as Skitskurr entered the minuscule fragment that remained of his work...